


Another Day

by maroonknight14



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Days, Bruce Wayne is not having a good day, Depression, Dissociation, Gen, slice of life-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 14:08:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7108285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maroonknight14/pseuds/maroonknight14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne is having a Bad Day. Doesn't change the fact he has a company to run, a family to love, and a Mission a carry out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Day

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely seti-fan for beta-ing.
> 
> My depiction of Bruce here is vaguely inspired by Grant Morrison's Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on Serious Earth and Batman v Superman, if that tells you anything.

Bruce wakes with a start as he always does. There’s a fog behind his eyes this morning. He rubs them to get it away, but feels the sluggishness crawl through his head instead.

_Great_ , he thinks. _It’s one of **those** days_.

He wants to cocoon himself in his soft, oh-so-inviting silky sheets. Sleep it off. Make it go away. He tells himself he’s already pushing it as it is; a respectable CEO should not sleep in as late as he does.

He gets out of bed using sheer force of will and starts his morning routine. Tai Chi sounds like a good way of waking up today. Slow and meditative. Bow, Bruce. Now, rising posture. Hips tucked in, knees slightly bent, and shoulders down. Breathe, Bruce, breathe. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. _Relax_.

“What do you think, Mr. Wayne?” He hears Lucius’s voice from his place beside him at the sleek, black, rectangular table that’s the centerpiece of the Wayne Enterprises boardroom, but it might as well be coming from a million miles away. He vaguely wonders how he got here. Did he shower this morning? Shave? Brush his teeth? He thinks he remembers doing those things, but everything feels really fuzzy. His brain is so slow today. It would scare him, probably, if he wasn’t feeling so numb.

Lucius is still looking at him. What was his question again? He opens his mouth to ask, but the words stick in his throat. He shuts it silently, giving Lucius a look of apology. Lucius looks back at him with what looks like pity.

_Dammit, Lucius_ , _save it for someone else_.

Lucius leans in and whispers in his ear. “Mr. Wayne? Don’t you have an interview with Ms. Vale this afternoon? Why don’t you go prepare for that?” And yeah, he’s probably right. Still. Damn him.

Bruce nods and stands up. Walking out the door, he feels like a robot, going through the motions.

The interview is, predictably, a disaster. Vale started her flirtations right from the get go, and while normally he’d be more than willing to play along, he’s just. Not. Having. It. Today. It makes him feel even more hollow than he already does, that he can’t even enjoy this game they always like to play.

Dick is finally at the manor for dinner, after having been unable to stop by for weeks. Bruce has been looking forward to this for days. He’s thought of all the things they could talk about, all the things that could draw a laugh, all the crazy things that will surely bring a smile to his former partner’s face. One of the first things he’d learned about Dick Grayson was that his smile was one of the brightest, most precious things in the world. Bruce would do just about anything if it made Dick smile.

When they sit down at the table in the dining room, it all goes out the window. Bruce can barely meet Dick’s eyes for some reason, and Alfred’s famous, lovingly prepared chicken parmesan seems unusually unappetizing. He cuts another piece into a perfect square and pushes it around his plate. It’s to get more of the sauce on it, he tells himself. The sauce is the best part. He’s going to eat it, eventually.

“Bruce.”

He looks up to see Dick looking at him with a knowing expression on his face. “It’s a Bad Day today, huh?”

Ashamed, Bruce nods. When did he get so bad at hiding his issues? He feels a stinging in his eyes, and goddammit he is an _adult_ and he is not going to _cry_ in front of _Dick_ of all people.

Dick is silent for a moment, thinking.

“So Wally called me the other day, right? There was this rash of break-ins at a few animal shelters in the CC area, and it was really bizarre and kind of throwing Wally for a loop. He could’ve just let the CCPD handle it, but you know how he is. So he called me and asked me to look into it…”

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment as Dick talks. Let’s his voice wash over him. It’s quite a bit higher than his own, and not nearly as rough. Dick’s a fast talker, with a bright, upbeat tempo. It’s always been comforting, in its own way.

He thinks he feels the hole in his chest closing up, just a little.

It’s 11 and he’s in the cave. He’s in the cave and he’s got his suit on and he’s sitting at the computer. Just sitting, not working. Experience has taught him that working a case when he’s like this is never anything more than a lesson in frustration. He’s just going to patrol tonight, take things easy. He can handle it. He can.

He finds a punk trying to deal some drugs to a teenager, which, no. Not on his watch. The punk sees him and drops into a fighting stance learned from hard living and necessity. Bruce feels like punching things today (Who is he kidding? He’s always ready to punch things.), but he just doesn’t feel the _fire_ of fighting in his bones like normal. It’s there, but muted. The fog is still in his head and he’s slower than he should be, less intense, less _focused_. It throws him off balance.

The guy apparently had a knife hidden somewhere in his jeans, because he’s now trying to stab the Batman with it. _Damn it_. He should have been able to spot that before he went after this idiot. Still, this should be easy. He knows plenty of techniques for handily disarming and/or incapacitating people with knives. He wouldn’t have survived this long if he didn’t.

It isn’t easy.

He blocks at just the wrong angle. Can’t get a good grip on the punk’s arm to properly redirect his force elsewhere. The knife slides cleanly into his gut. _Well, shit_.

The punk, thankfully, doesn’t do much after that. Probably too shocked that he managed to get an actual honest to goodness hit in on _the Batman_. Bruce hits the pressure point at the base of the punk’s neck, and watches him fall to the ground, limp and numb. He directs a punch to the guy’s left temple to knock him out for good measure. The kid he was trying to deal to is long gone.

There’s bright, red blood running down his suit. There’s a trail just starting to curl around his right leg. He watches it with a detached interest.      

He presses his hand to the wound and looks up at the roof eight stories above him. He can make it. Of course, that’s what he said about coming out tonight and look where he is now.

He climbs (not crawls, he likes to think he’s more dignified than that, even injured) up the fire escape. There’s a pain in his side that’s making him dizzy.

He’s on the roof (somehow) and from here he can make it, easy. It’s just a few short hops to the nearest cave entrance.

He’s in the cave again and the the pain in his side has crawled up to his chest and down his leg. _Jesus, Bruce. It’s just a measly stab wound_.

He must have called Alfred at some point because Alfred’s got his arms around his shoulders, guiding him over to the cave’s medical supplies. Alfred directs him to lie down on the bench and he distantly feels himself comply.

He doesn’t bother to hold the tears back this time. They run silently down his face as Alfred searches for the thread they use for stitches. _Fuck this day_.

He must have said that out loud because Alfred turns around and looks distinctly unhappy at his harsh language. Alfred won’t say anything though, he knows that Bruce’s use of profanity is a battle he lost long ago.

“Master Bruce, tomorrow is another day.” Alfred can’t bring himself to look at Bruce when he says their old, repeated mantra. He never can these days.

It’s an old line, an old ritual, one that should have lost its effect by now. But it hasn’t. Bruce feels a bit of hope fill his heart, and the hole in his chest close that much more. He’s not okay. But maybe he’ll be that much better tomorrow.

“Yes, Alfred,” he replies, as he always does. “Yes, it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this ending, but I've been sitting on this for a few weeks now and haven't come up with anything better, so it's staying the way it is.


End file.
